


Pathetic Fallacy

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:07:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23681326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Pathetic fallacy is a kind of personification that gives human emotions to inanimate objects of nature; for example, referring to weather features reflecting a mood.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 47





	Pathetic Fallacy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lisalicious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisalicious/gifts), [cozygothmode (sarcatholic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcatholic/gifts).



‘Pathetic fallacy’ they called it, with the first being more of pathos than of pitiful. When the weather was like the mood, as if all the barometric thingies and tidal whatsits were all attuned to the whim of the narrator, or protagonist, or whatever. 

Crowley had always taken offence to the ‘fallacy’ part. It wasn’t a lie. There was a song - far too modern for the angel’s tastes - ‘everywhere you go, you always take the weather with you’. 

Because it did. From the very first fall of rain over their awkward first meeting, to the sunny days in the park, to turbulent skies after an argument. Aziraphale - knowingly or not - projected his true feelings over the canvas of the sky.

Or - well - he had.

Ever since Tadfield (where they’d met the most powerful cloud-mancer of all), things had been a little bit more mercurial, to make a terrible, terrible pun. (Crowley liked those. Aziraphale did too, but only if he was the one to come up with them.) Capricious. Unexpected. 

Maybe meeting someone with more power over the skies had knocked the wind out of his sails, or maybe he was no longer broadcasting so much, or… whatever the reason, it would now take them by surprise.

(Or, take Crowley by surprise. Aziraphale had always been blissfully ignorant - or denied cognisance - of his gift.)

The first time it had sprinkled out a fine dusting of snow, Crowley expected the angel to be feeling wistful and whimsical. Snow of the fluffy, flurrying variety normally meant the angel was reminiscing, and feeling cuddly and bubbly. So Crowley dutifully made him a cocoa and pecked his cheek and was surprised that the angel startled from his reading. He was in a serious, hyper-focused state, and not wanting marshmallows and cream. Well. Not more than his baseline.

That was strange, but a series of similar temperature-gauging went just as awry, and Crowley realised the synchronisation was off. 

Once, it might have panicked him. Being less able to tell the angel’s mood by looking out the window, or having to make educated guesses. It would have sent him into inner turmoil about his lack of understanding, and worried him that something untoward was going on.

But that was before. Before, when he’d still had one eye trained on the exit, no matter where he was. Half-convinced that any minute now, the world would catch up with him, and that Aziraphale would finally-- that he would--

He hadn’t. Okay, for a while he had, despite the pleading and bargaining, but in the end he’d picked Crowley. The world, too, but Crowley was jealously coiled around the words, the looks, the touches. Fingers laced with his. Eyes meeting and admitting, at last. His. Him. Them. 

And he did worry a little, still, of course. Hard to give up on millennia of neurotic over-planning and so on. But an angel surprised with cocoa at a less-desired moment turned out to be an angel surprised by a gesture entirely out of the blue, instead of tailored for his current mood. 

So Crowley started doing it just because. Not because he’d picked up on cues, but because he thought he might like it, or want it, or appreciate it. Less rigorous scientific observance, and more… genuine thoughtfulness and an appreciation for the fingers on the back of his hand, or the soft, soft smile of affection in return. 

And little by little, the panic lessened. 

Just like walking back to the car after a very nice meal, only to be startled by a brief, sharp shower of rain. The air still somewhere between balmy and crisp, but the downpour sharp enough to hammer down like tiny, freezing nails. 

It wasn’t a sign of anything other than the pregnant clouds needing to break their waters, or it was a sign of something too far away to be seen, and Crowley threw his jacket over the angel’s ducked head, and his heart hurt as Aziraphale giggled and tugged him into the ineffectual shelter of a tree.

There was no lightning, just clumped blobs of water, and he shook off the worst of the spray from his coat and chilled fingers, to find them whisked away from him and held aloft by plump, happy, angelic ones. 

Aziraphale didn’t speak, but his smile gave way to warm puffs of breath, dancing over his knuckles and turning to tickles down his spine. His fine curls were awry with the captured moisture, clumping and darkening the pale halo. Pink cheeks and full lips and oh - maybe he had conjured up this little shower after all. 

Crowley took one now-warmed finger, crooked it under the angel’s chin. Tilted his face up and up and saw a flower, seeking the sun. He was no sun, though his hair blazed, and his own face felt like it gave out enough heat to warm the globe. So beautiful, this thing, this creature. So full of joy at even the simplest of moments. A rainfall, one of many since the first, and it could make him beam like every teardrop of liquid was a gift made just for him.

It hurt. It hurt like hell, but worse, because it was a pain Crowley willingly sought out. He closed his eyes and leaned for the offered kiss, breathing in the exhale before he spoke a wordless language over the lips below his. Fingers curled in wet clothes, noses nudging and shoes bumping as they made their promises all over again. You, and me. Me, and you. His forked tongue sealing the deal with a signature he only let the angel know, and then eyes that met to witness it. 

It could keep raining as long as it liked, there was nothing pathetic about this at all.


End file.
